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The Prizefighter.
“Dreams of innocence are just that; they usually depend on a denial of reality that can be its own form of hubris.” — Michael Pollan
The straight razor rested, ice cold and ruthless against the quivering child’s neck. A powerful, bejeweled, and monstrous hand manipulated it and the boy’s jaw.
The Champ had to shake off the look of pure terror in his mind’s eye as the arena rocked electric and sensational. It seemed to be an organic form in and of itself, swaying, stomping, hooting, and hollering: the crowd that came to see him fight that night in his hometown of Chicago melding into one mind and one body.
The acrid smell of high class cigar smoke, stale popcorn, sweat, and hot dogs with no known origin beyond the vendors’ wares stung his nostrils as he ran up to the ring with both gloves held high. Various men in sharp Italian suits patted his shoulders as he entered: “go get ’em kid!”
The massive, bejeweled, monstrous hands rubbed his back in the training room. Thick cigar smoke reminded him of the fire and brimstone sermons of his youth in the Baptist Church with its hellish sulfuric scent as it wafted like some dying whore about his face, teasing faux luxury and pleasure.
